


Cotton Candy Pink

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Science Experiments, Some Plot, listen i know overlord is bad but consider this, lmao whats a beta, ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: I need a human,so said the Spider to the Phase Sixer.





	Cotton Candy Pink

Most Cybertronians have no sympathy for organics.

Such weak, fragile-- and deceptively _intelligent_ alien types.

It is incredibly _unusual_ to learn defeat at the hands of the same organic species, much less the same _human_. Overlord’s experience had been downright humiliating. Demeaning. All-consuming until other pressing, Megatron-relevant matters took precedent in his violent lifestyle. On the other hand, Tarantulas absorbed his loss of the Noisemaze and Tor laboratory as well as any other scientist: He wrote it down, and then set on the next impossible task.

And then, together, they sparked the idea of advancing the organic alt-mode. More stable and fluid than holoforms, a human disguise would allow the mechs to navigate civilization without spreading mass hysteria. While Tarantulas collected some data from the veritable Verity Carlo, he needed so much more information.

_I need a human,_ so said the Spider to the Phase Sixer.

* * *

“_Will you walk into my parlour, said a Spider to a Fly;_” you read aloud. “’_Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy._”

Soft, malleable metal presses slightly against your arm. Tarantulas leans forward to read the poem over your shoulder. One of his claws preens curiously at the worn pages. While he defers literature to his oversized companion, located somewhere deep within the remainder of the volcano, he especially enjoys poetry about spiders.

“_The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,_” you continue. The mech nuzzles into the crook of your neck while a deep, rumbling purr emits from his warm, broad chest. He smells like fresh energon, delicate and bitter at the same time. Though you’ve known him for a short time, you know that he craves affection from anyone willing to offer such. Fighting bits of laughter, you manage to continue, “_And I have many pretty things to shew when you get there._”

“Do you like _my_ pretty things?” Tarantulas purrs. “They’re almost complete, thanks to you... though I miss those on Cybertron. It used to be so beautiful, sweetest, before it turned to ashes.”

Sadness tinges his vocal chords yet you struggle to know if the grief is fresh. The passage of time is impossible to compare when it concerns humans and Cybertronian lifespans.

Then Tarantulas springs to his feet and seizes your arm. “Come, come,” he says. “I am close, I know it in my spark.”

The experiments are non-invasive, although being doused in a lime-green light is less than calming at the bottom of a dense, dormant volcano. Then again, you _had_ volunteered to help Tarantulas devise an organic alt-mode. Earth would join the Council of Worlds at any given moment, and Tarantulas promised that his science was essential to the future of interspecies relations.

“Most are not like you, sweetest,” the mech twitters as he places you on a pedestal to meet his eye-level. Tarantulas tests the joints in your arms and wrists, taking the occasional note with one of his extra claws. “Even if I were to present myself as _demure_ as a _fly_, humans will fear monsters taller than their gods.”

“And for monsters, that’s the allure of an audience,” comes from the Phase Sixer emerging from the tunnels, his heavy-lidded, crimson optics fixed on a handheld communicator. Unlike Tarantulas, whose voice reminds you of the whisper of cobwebs against skin, Overlord is the drawl of heavy machinery sweetened by his natural arrogance. His lips draw back in a familiar smirk as he finally lifts his gaze. “My, my, what sorts of villainy are the two of you plotting?”

Tarantulas slips between you and Overlord while he measures your back width. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Overlord, no. It’s because he doesn’t trust him around _you_. “Calculations for humanoid biomass needs to account for elasticity,” says the scientist. “What were you saying about an audience?”

With a wave of his hand, the communicator disappears into subspace and Overlord crosses the rest of the cavern with two simple strides. “The perfect breeding grounds for terror is in the midst of the masses.” Tarantulas gently tilts your head to the side and Overlord eyes the unmarred expanse of skin just as a lion considers his prey. “All the clamor and panic and noise,” he continues, “All of the sounds of fear, just for _me_.”

Overlord then leans down and studies you, ignoring the way Tarantulas places a few protective claws on your waist. One of his massive fingers touches your chin and lifts it slightly.

“Tell me,” Overlord says. “Are we truly grander than your gods?”

“I thought you preferred being a monster,” you reply, hoping that your voice doesn’t tremble.

His smile grows. “Is there a difference?”

Suddenly Tarantulas yanks you away from the titan. “Enough, Overlord,” Tarantulas hisses. “Unless you aim to contribute, please do not disrupt the experiment. You may ponder and preen at a later time.”

You fear that Overlord will take offense. Instead, the Phase Sixer shrugs and rises again to his full height. “As to your liking, Tarantulas,” he drawls. “But don’t think I’m oblivious to your paranoia. I know you won’t allow unsupervised contact with our fragile, _sweetest_ companion. What was it that you said? Too much…”

His blazing optics linger on you.

“_Temptation._”

Snickering, Overlord slips back into the cavern halls with echoing footfalls. His words send a rattling shiver down your spine despite Tarantulas’s attempts to reassure you. He doesn’t stop fussing until you squeeze his hand and tell him that you believe him.

The scientist burrows closer to you for comfort and affection in the ways his nightmares fail to provide. “You mustn’t seek his company,” he warns. “Not without me.”

* * *

But it seems inevitable, even with his eight eyes and hypervigilance, that you find yourself alone for the first time.

Tarantulas often ventures into the outside world, though it’s rare he would leave so late in the afternoon. You expect to see his luminous gaze peeking from the corners of the dormant volcano. Eventually you wander down one of the illuminated halls in hopes of finding him engrossed in one of Shockwave’s texts.

You knew there were risks of running into Overlord-- but it’s not like you’re _actively_ searching for him. Maybe Tarantulas was with Overlord, quizzing him about his alt-modes or experience with mass displacement. It had been funny to witness Overlord muster as much dignity and pride as possible when he practiced mass displacement. Turns out, he smaller he was, the bigger the ego.

You turn the corner and spy the library of scrolls and datapads, filched or discovered from all sorts of places. There was a large, metal slab pushed against one side of the room, partially hidden. You rack your brain to remember the proper term. Berth? Charging table? Was this really a library or was it Tarantulas’s bedroom--

Then Overlord pushes himself up from the berth, and your heart skips a beat.

He tosses his communicator to the floor, then runs a hand over his helm. Though you’ve never seen Overlord pissed off, you think this would be a bad time to test his temper. At least he doesn’t know that you’re here.

Overlord's crisp, sleek frame is partially hidden but you can see him sit up with legs spread and shoulders slack. With his back braced against a column, he turns his head slightly. Eyes half-closed, he looks… calm. Thoughtful. And then you see his left hand leisurely moving over his lap, caressing what you can only guess is the Cybertronian equivalent of a dick.

The spike stands to attention with his careful strokes, gleaming slickly, and you wish the earth would swallow you whole right then and there. Rooted to the ground, you can only watch with sick and perverse fascination. Because what is he, but temptation? He’s vicious and artful, and every instance of him is the epitome of an adrenaline high.

Overlord huffs, and thick transfluid slowly beads at the tip of his spike. Another murmured groan escapes his vents. He swipes his thumb over the viscous liquid and raises it to his mouth.

Your eyes fix on the slight smear of cotton candy pink across his bottom lip, then on the way he licks it off with a silver tongue.

You don’t remember sprinting back to the main cavern nor leaving a hasty note for Tarantulas on his communicator. Your brain is on autopilot until you reach your home, where you slam the front door shut, slide to the floor, with head in your hands as the scene loops over and over again. You invaded his privacy. You feel dirty. You feel _gross_.

And yet, the warmth spreading through your body as you picture Overlord jerking off is just too good to ignore.


End file.
